


Hierarchy of Needs

by Cliophilyra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker, Friends to Lovers, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season 9 AU, there will be smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-26 07:03:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10781940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cliophilyra/pseuds/Cliophilyra
Summary: After the fall a newly human Cas comes back to the bunker.Snapshots of the process of learning how to be human and re-learning how to be Castiel.





	1. Food, Shelter, Warmth, Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Another unfinished thing I found on my phone!

Cas is slumped against the door of the bunker the first time he sees Dean after the Fall. He has waited an age (or so it seems, it’s very difficult to judge the passing of time when it has previously meant nothing to you), for him and Sam to return.

It’s been four days since he crashed to the Earth in a spinning, agonizing shower of sparks and feathers; since Metatron dragged his grace out and cast him aside like a gutted fish; since he watched a million fiery shooting stars plummet around him and realized, with a sickening crawl of terror and guilt, exactly what had happened. Three days since he finally managed to call Dean. The intense sweep of relief he felt at the sound of his voice over the distorted line was the first hint that all might, possibly, be ok.

He gathered the tattered remains of his wits about him and hauled himself half way across the country to Lebanon, Kansas. He walked, hitched, took buses and walked again, to find himself outside what looks like an abandoned electrical substation. He bangs his fist against the rough metal, trying not to think about the pain that sparks up his arm when he does so; or about the ache in his legs and blisters on his feet, the gritty tiredness of his eyes, the thumping pain in his head, the hunger, the thirst. There will be time to consider all of that later.

There is no answer; he knocks until the pain in his hand makes it impossible and then he stands still, listening, trying not to be terrified of the silence, of all the things he can no longer hear. He turns, defeated and lets all the air out of his lungs in a draining rush as he leans back against the cold door, closing his eyes against the low evening sun that flashes through the tree line.

When he hears the familiar guttering roar of the Impala’s engine he looks up. When he sees the brothers walking towards him he finds his throat tightening and something prickling at the corners of his eyes, his chest feels tight, he bites his lip, his face is wet and he’s not sure why.

When Dean stands in front of him and puts his hands on his shoulders, turning him to look into his face, he is speechless. Eyes the color of the trees search his, tiny lines crease the skin between them, Dean’s mouth is set in a line, his jaw is tight, he looks angry, but not at Cas. The last few rays of the dying sunlight fall on his face and hair and it’s as if Cas has never seen him before, which, in a way, he hasn’t. Before, he had seen only his soul, a brilliant, radiant, cracked thing; patched with threads of his own grace. This though; the brilliant eyes, the scatter of freckles that mark his skin like stars, the determined set of his jaw, is this what other people see when they look at Dean. How do they ever look away?

“Hello Dean.” He can hardly hear his own voice.

Dean says nothing but envelops Cas in a hug, wrapping strong arms tightly around him. The sudden comfort of Dean’s embrace takes him aback, all the fight and fear suddenly drains out of him. He presses his face into Dean’s shoulder, breathes in the warm, human scent of him. He knows he is shaking, he can feel Dean’s heart thumping as he tightens his arms around him, his unsteady breath against his neck, the barest brush of lips against his skin. Cas realizes he is not breathing. His face is still wet. Tears are dripping onto Dean’s shoulder. Cas doesn’t know how to make them stop, just as he has no idea how they started.

Dean takes a deep breath and pulls away slightly. His eyes are glassy as he raises his hands to Cas’s face and cups his jaw, searching his face. His hands are rough but warm and gentle as they smooth over the longer scruff on Cas’s cheeks; evidence of the passing of time that will affect them both now. It’s only when Dean pulls away and the chill air floods back in that he realizes that he never returned the hug; his arms are still lax by his sides. They watch each other, spell-bound in silence for a second until there is an awkward shuffle from behind them. Eyes widen and they blink, breathe, step back to reality.

Sam hovers awkwardly behind his brother, watching over his shoulder with a frown. He looks utterly worn down and wrung out but there is an almost tangible empathy in his expression as he smiles at Cas.

Dean clears his throat, smacks his palm against Cas’s shoulder heavily and turns away to unlock the bunker. “Come on buddy, let’s get you home,” he says, his voice full of cracked, false levity.

They all file through the narrow doorway in the wall and no one mentions the word clamouring for attention, the one he said without even thinking. Home.

***

Once inside Cas looks around him at the vast space under the hill. There is a sense of warmth and welcome that he has never felt before. He very much hopes that he is home.

He stands, unsure, in the centre of the room as Dean dumps his duffle on the table and Sam drops into a chair with a sigh that sounds like it comes from his soul, although he could no longer tell.

Dean stretches his shoulders, muscles rolling, spine cracking. He lets out a deep, exhausted groan and Cas watches, transfixed. Dean opens his eyes and meets Cas’s stare. His face flushes crimson and he looks away. He swears under his breath. “So…” he starts, then clears his throat, “Glad you made it Cas, we were getting worried.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Yeah Dean was about to come looking for you,” he says.

Dean shoots his brother a look and then shrugs awkwardly. “Yeah, well…” he turns away, “You hungry?” he asks.

Cas nods. “Yes.”

“Ok, gimme a minute." Dean walks out of the room, off into the depths of the bunker. Leaving Cas standing, looking after him.

“It’s good to have you back Cas,” Sam says, “It can’t have been easy, you did good.”

Cas gives a small, rueful smile. “Yes, it was hard; there is a surprising amount to get used to about being human. There are so many needs and wants. This body is constantly making demands that I don’t understand. My mind is utter chaos and I have no idea how to make it stop.”

Sam looks at him surprised, he gets up from his seat, still looking dead on his feet and comes over to Cas, putting his huge arms around his shoulders. “Hey I’m sorry Cas, I didn’t think. I mean I know it sucks to be human sometimes but I guess we can’t understand what it’s like to just be one all of a sudden.”

Cas raises his arms tentatively, it feels nice, he thinks, comforting and friendly but not the same. He is not swamped with sensation the way he was when Dean hugged him.

“Like I said, you did good though.” Sam slaps him on the back and steps away, dropping back into the chair. “Dean was about to come find you. If I hadn’t been messed up from the trials we would have been straight there. I’m sorry Cas.”

Cas smiles and shakes his head. Even without his powers he can see Sam is still not well. His skin is drawn and sallow, his eyes are sunken and ringed with bruise-purple and he coughs too much.

"It's ok," Cas says, "I know why you couldn't come. You have helped more than enough anyway. If I hadn't had you and Dean's example it would have been even harder to adjust to humanity." He smiles.

Sam laughs. "Really? Fuck, don't take our lead; we're pretty messed up Cas. Cautionary tale maybe but not much of a role model."  
  
Cas frowns, he knows objectively that there are things the Winchesters do that make their, and others, lives harder; that they have made bad choices, but he can't imagine why Sam would think they're not the best examples of humanity Cas knows.  
  
"That's not true Sam," he says simply.  
  
Sam shakes his head and smiles, "It's your funeral," he says, "I'm glad you're here now anyway. Not least because it might stop Dean climbing the fucking walls," he added, almost to himself.  
  
Cas looks confused for a moment but Sam doesn't elaborate and Dean chooses that moment to come back into the room, baring plates and bottles and aiming a glare at his brother who raises an eyebrow in a look that says, are you arguing?  
  
Dean puts the plates down, three thick sandwiches, peanut butter and jelly on white bread. Sam takes one and Dean pushes one towards Cas. "Here, eat. It's not much, guess we need to buy more groceries."  
  
Cas stares down at the plate. He has only the vaguest idea of what it is. He understands the concept and purpose of food, he's not an idiot; it’s just that the specifics are sometimes a bit more of a mystery. The only thing he ate and drank on his journey here were burgers and coffee. At least he knew he liked them, plus the coffee made it easier not to sleep.  
  
He lifts the sandwich to his mouth, examining it curiously. It smells...odd, difficult to describe, not exactly appetizing but not entirely unpleasant. He glances up to see Dean's eyes fixed on him. He smiles and looks down again at the sandwich and takes a large bite. His eyes widen as the taste floods his mouth; suddenly the center of his mind's focus. The food is thick and rich, soft, oily, sweet, salty. The peanut butter is cloying and sticks the strangely tasteless mass of the bread to the roof of his mouth. The sensation is unnerving. He finds it hard to swallow. The jelly is sweet, sticky and sharp, it makes his mouth water. The experience is bizarre and slightly terrifying, he feels a rising panic at the idea that every time he eats he will be assaulted by this level of sensory overload.  
  
Dean pushes something towards him, he looks up to see a bottle at his arm. "Drink." Dean says, smiling crookedly at his stunned expression.  
  
Cas takes a swig from the bottle without looking at the label. That is easier, it dilutes the taste, cuts through the sensations.  
  
“Good?”  
  
Cas frowns, considering the experience before nodding. “Yes, I think so.”  
  
Dean laughs. “Ok good, I guess.” He takes a bite of his own sandwich and leans back in the chair.  
  
***

Once they’ve eaten they stay sitting at the table, chatting. Dean wants to know everything that has happened to him since the Fall. How did he get here? Has he seen any other Angels? He doesn't mention Metatron or the spell or how he tricked him, and Cas is grateful. He doesn't know how to begin processing that yet.

The questions and queries wash over him. He answers as many as he can until thinking begins to feel like swimming in syrup. His eyes are sore and his movements sluggish and heavy. He blinks several times.

“Dude he's asleep on his feet, can't you tell?” Sam chides his brother gently after a while. He looks on the verge of passing out himself. He glances at his watch then shows it to Dean.

“Shit! It's late. Sorry man you must be fucking wrecked. C’mon, there's a room for you.” Dean gets up and holds out a hand, gesturing for Cas to follow him. Cas gets up slowly, says goodnight to Sam and follows Dean down the winding corridors of the bunker.

They reach a dark wooden door, seemingly identical to many others that line the halls. “Here we are – home sweet home.” Dean says and pushes open the door to reveal a small room with a freshly made bed, a t-shirt and a pair of sleep pants are folded on the covers. “Sorry these are a bit old and ratty,” Dean says, gesturing to the clothes, “they're all I've got for now but we’ll get you some new stuff soon ok?”

“Thank you Dean, I'm sure they will be perfect,” Cas says with a smile.

Dean blushes. “S’ok, you can't sleep in that fucking trench coat,” he mutters awkwardly.

They look at each other for a moment. Memories of the hug and almost-kiss on the doorstep swirl in Cas’s head. He wonders if Dean is thinking the same thing.

“Goodnight Cas.”

“Goodnight Dean.”

***

Cas wakes with a start. The walls are pressing in. His head is wrapped in something, something that fills his ears and nose and mouth and covers his eyes. He tries to reach out, his mind flails for the comfort of the others but there is nothing there but darkness. He sits bolt upright and suddenly the room lights up. Bursts of color explode in front of his eyes, he screws them shut with a gasp, throwing up a hand to shield himself from the brightness.

“Cas!” It's Dean’s voice. Cas opens his eyes a crack and squints at him. He is standing just inside the door to the room, wide-eyed and panicked, dressed in just his underwear and an old blue robe.

“Dean?” His voice is even deeper than usual.

“What's wrong? You were yelling.”

Cas frowns. “Nothing I…a dream,” he says quietly. He hadn't even realised he had called out.

Dean moves closer. “Nightmare?” He asks, but it's not really a question.

“It's too quiet,” Cas says. As if he could explain in words what it feels like.

Dean nods. Slowly he sits down on the edge of the bed. “Do you want me to…I could sit with you if you like?”

Cas swallows and nods. Dean leans back against the headboard, stretching his legs in front of him. They are silent for a while until Cas says softly, “I can't hear them any more.”

Dean turns to look at him. “Angel radio?” he asks.

Cas nods. “I've always been able to hear them, all the time. I have never been alone. I can't explain. It's like being…unplugged. Disconnected. From everything. All I can hear is my own thoughts and they are…confused…untidy.”

“Yeah that sounds like a human brain alright,” Dean says with a wry smile.

“Is it always like that?”

“More or less. It is for me anyway.”

“How do you do anything?”

“Fuck knows. We’re just used to it I guess.”

“What if I can't - get used to it I mean - What will happen to me?”

“You'll be ok Cas. You're already doing amazing. You got here didn't you? On your own? And you've got me-- us. I’m-- we’re here for you Cas. Ok? We’re gonna help you figure out all this stupid human shit. However long it takes. You’re home now.”

Cas feels Deans fingers curl around his where they lie on top of the covers and give a small squeeze. He doesn't trust himself to speak so he just nods and squeezes back.

 


	2. Safety and Care

A week later they’re all standing in the lobby of the bunker, dripping rain water on the floor. They have all just got in after being caught in a downpour. Cas’s hair is soaking, plastered to his skull. Rivulets of water run down his face, into his eyes and off his nose. He blinks and tries to push it away, smearing the rain over his cheeks, re-distributing the moisture to his hands. He shakes his head gently, which just succeeds in making more water run down the back of his neck, down the collar of his white button-up. He shivers as the drops slide down his spine.

Dean, his own clothes no drier, looks at him and sighs. “Shoes off Cas,” he says firmly, looking down at the muddy footprints on the parquet floor.

Cas toes off his shoes, the floor is cold and his socks are wet.

Dean takes him by the arm and steers him through the bunker, to his room. He opens the door and goes in to the bathroom.

Cas stands and watches him. He has only been in Dean’s room for a few moments since he arrived here. He wonders why they're not in his own room. This room is sparsely decorated but strangely, it still makes him feel comfortable. It is someone’s home, even if that someone is something of a Spartan.

There are weapons on the walls, but they seem to be more for decoration than function, there are photos and a pile of vinyl records, a pair of ancient, giant headphones and a turntable; dragged out of the Men of Letters living area he supposes. There are clothes folded neatly on the perfectly made bed, perfect hospital corners on the sheets, blankets turned back as if lined up with a set-square.

“C’mon Cas!” Dean’s voice rings out from bathroom, echoing against the tiles.

Cas follows the sound and finds him with his hand in the shower, testing the water temperature.

Dean turns, apparently satisfied, and hands Cas a couple of huge towels. “Here, you’re going to need these. Get in the shower and get warm. I really don’t need you getting a cold.”

Cas nods and pulls his trench-coat off, dropping it with a wet splat on the tiled floor. He starts to undo the buttons of his shirt, peeling it back from his shoulders. Goosebumps appear on his wet skin.

Dean is staring at him, wide eyed. “Jesus dude, gimme a chance to get out of the room before you strip off,” he says, aparrently aiming for amused irritation and missing by a mile. He licks his lip and swallows, turning away.

Cas stops, fingers on his pants button, shirt open. “Sorry,” he says, frowning at the back of Dean’s head.

“S’ok, just…I’ll see you in a minute ok?” Dean turns back briefly, his cheeks are flushed pink, pupils dilated. He blinks, nods once and backs out of the door awkwardly.

Cas watches him go. More than anything in the world he wants to grab him, pull him into a hug like the one Dean gave him when he first arrived; crushing and desperate and unthinking. But unthinking doesn’t seem to be on the menu anymore; every time they look at each other Cas can almost see the wheels in Dean’s head turning. The tiny twitches in his fingers, the widening of his eyes and the panicked nervousness that makes him stop, turn away, walk away.

Cas sighs and finishes taking off his clothes, dropping the damp garments on top of his coat and climbing into the shower, dragging the curtain across behind him. It’s not his first shower; he has quickly come to understand the need to keep his vessel clean, and, more recently, to appreciate that the experience could be pleasurable. He pushes his hands through his hair, tipping his head back and closing his eyes as the water gradually warms his chilled skin, washing away the goose bumps and rain. The water is the perfect temperature. Warmth rains down around him, the pressure is high and the drops hit his skin with an ever so slight sting, bouncing off his shoulders, streaming down his back and chest, sliding over his ass and legs, running into the dark, coarse hair between his legs, down his cock. It feels perfect.

He thinks about the way Dean looks at him, the way he bites his pink tongue unconsciously between perfect teeth, the way his eyes almost glow, the flush on his neck and cheek. He wonders how Dean would look if he did take the plunge and kiss him. How would his lips feel against his? What it would be like to have Dean kiss his neck, the way he almost did that night outside the bunker? What would Dean’s skin taste like if he were to lick that place below his ear that he finds so oddly appealing?

He feels heat gathering in his groin and looks down to see his cock, hard and jutting between his legs. He reaches down and wraps his wet hand around solid flesh, gasping at the sensation. His breath catches as he moves his fist, dragging along the length and back, thrusting into the tight grip of his hand. He closes his eyes and tips his head back against the cool of the tiled wall. In his minds-eye it is Dean’s hand grasping him, Dean’s green eyes staring into his, face flushed, lips parted, breath ghosting against his neck as he moves his hand faster along Cas’s over-heated, achingly hard cock. He imagines the shiver of his skin as Dean moves down, sliding his hot tongue over his skin, licking the drops of water that run down his chest, flicking at his nipples, pebbling the skin and making him shiver as his breath cools shower-heated flesh.

He moves his hand faster, breath stuttering, ragged panting under hot rain. He imagines Dean on his knees before him, smiling up at him as he takes him in his mouth and sinks down, swirling his tongue along the underside of his cock, sucking and licking until Cas can’t help the sounds that come from his mouth, the pleas and prayers and moans. Dean moving forward even further, pushing his nose into warm, soft hair, humming darkly, digging his fingers into Cas’s ass, opening his throat until Cas feels himself surrounded by tight, wet heat. He imagines looking down at Dean, at his plush lips wrapped around his cock, emerald eyes locked on his and he comes over his hand with a shout, pressing the back of his other hand against his mouth to muffle the sound of Dean’s name.

He sags against the wall for a moment, chest rising and falling, knees weak, head spinning. Cooling shower water soaks him and he almost expects it to hiss when it hits his flushed skin. He takes a huge, stuttering breath, stands up and turns his attention back to getting clean, washing quickly before he ends up as cold as he was before he got in there.

***

When he gets out he wraps a large white towel around his waist and scrubs at his wet hair with another one.

He stands at the sink and runs a hand over the condensation streaked mirror until he can see his face. He looks tired. He touches his face, moving the skin curiously with the tips of his fingers; it feels very strange to think of this face as his, or this body. Once, his vessel was like a tiny cage trying to contain a universe, now he doesn’t even feel like he fills it to its edges.

Sometimes though; when he looks at Dean, when he thinks about him - about them - he feels something inside him expand. He feels like he is opening out, unfolding and becoming something more than this.

When he looks away from the mirror he notices a pile of clothes by the side of the sink. There is a new pair of dark blue jeans; an old, black, faded t-shirt, which he recognizes as Dean's - he can still smell him when he holds the soft fabric to his face - some new socks, underwear and a jumper made from warm brown-amber wool. He runs his fingers over the incredibly soft sweater, feeling the fibers warm his hand as he strokes it. It is new; there is a tag still sticking out of the collar and he imagines Dean standing in a store, choosing it for him. Why had he picked this one? Was it the style he liked? The color? When he holds it up in front of the mirror the autumnal colors make his blue eyes look brighter. Is that why he chose it?

There is that unfurling sensation inside him again.

It is only as he is putting on the clothes that he is hit by the realization that Dean must have come in and left them in the bathroom while he was in the shower. His face heats up, flushing scarlet as he wonders how much he saw, or heard.

******

 

A week later Dean has never mentioned anything about what he may or may not have heard in the bathroom and the events of that day are currently far from Cas’s mind anyway. He is sick, but not dying. Or so Dean and Sam have both re-assured him. Apparently this is just a Cold and it's common and not life threatening. He's just going to have to take their word for that.

His skin is clammy, crawling with either prickling heat or shivery chills from one moment to the next. His chest aches like someone is sitting on it, his throat is dry and scratchy, his eyes hurt; they water when he tries too hard to focus on something and his voice has almost entirely disappeared.

At first he had panicked; he understands illness in an abstract sense, he knows it is something that humans have to deal with but, like most aspects of humanity, it isn't something he has ever thought of in relation to himself. So when he had first felt the aches and pains creeping over him and the pain when he swallowed, he had ignored it. He is becoming used to weird and unexpected sensations, now this body is his alone he notices them a lot more but he still has no idea what is normal.

The first time he sneezed Dean had taken one look at his expression of stunned fear and burst out laughing; only stopping when he realized that Cas seemed to be in the throes of a sneezing fit that looked like it might never end. Cas had sneezed until his eyes were streaming and he could hardly breathe, his nose was bunged up and his head hurt.

Dean had pressed his hand to Cas’s forehead. “Shit you're burning up!” He sighed as he looked sympathetically into Cas’s wide, bloodshot eyes. “I'm sorry buddy.”

Cas groaned. “Am I dying? I think I feel like I’m dying.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure you’ve just got a cold Drama Queen.”

***

That was three days ago and Cas hasn’t left his bed since. He’s pretty much used to the sneezing, coughing, running nose and streaming eyes by now; it’s the aches and pains that really get him down. Every movement makes him groan, his joints have all become rusty hinges. He has slept a lot over the last couple of days but he’s still tired, hot, cold and uncomfortable.

He’s staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the paint when the door opens, a sliver of light from the hallway falling across the darkened room. Dean comes in quietly, carrying a tray.

“Hey buddy,” he says, his voice hushed, “how’re you doing?”

Cas struggles to sit up a bit, coughing wetly. “I still feel awful,” he says through the cough. His voice is a sticky whisper.

Dean places the tray on the side table and sits on the edge of the bed. He puts a hand to Cas’s forehead, grimacing at the clammy heat. “You’re still too hot,” he says. He hands Cas a large glass of water which he accepts gratefully. It still hurts to swallow but the cool liquid offers some relief from the dry, scratchy pain.

Dean drops two Tylenol tablets into his hand. “Take these, they’ll help you feel a bit less shitty,” he says. Cas looks at them carefully before putting them in his mouth and taking a mouthful of water. He swallows awkwardly and them makes a face and takes another mouthful of water, tilting his head back.

Dean frowns. “You ok?”

Cas nods. “Can’t swallow them,” he says, “they taste bitter.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You’re not supposed to chew them, they taste like shit.”

“I’m not chewing them Dean, they’re dissolving!” Cas insists, annoyed. He screws up his face at the vile bitterness on his tongue then sips the water again and swallows hard, wincing at the pain in his throat, then gulps down the rest of the water to clear the taste.

“I brought you some food, think you can manage it?” Dean asks.

Cas looks over at the tray on the nightstand, it does smell good, as much as he can smell anything through his bunged-up nose. “What is it?”

“Soup, Tomato rice soup.” Dean says.

“Yes please.”

“Sit up then.” Dean stands as Cas sits forward, arranging his pillows to prop him up. When Cas is comfortable Dean strokes his hair again, quickly and softly.

“You shouldn’t get too close to me.” Cas says sadly. Dean frowns. He stops, looking unsure.

“You might get sick.”

Dean lets out a breath. “Don’t worry about me Cas,” he says, “If I’m gonna get sick it’s too late now. Anyway, if I do it’ll be your chance to look after me.” He lifts the tray off the table and puts it down on Cas’s lap. “Here, eat ok? You’ll be better soon.”

Cas nods and dips the spoon into the soup and raises it to his lips. The smell makes his mouth water and the sweet-savoury taste floods his mouth and soothes his throat, warming him from the inside. He closes his eyes with a smile.

“Good?” Dean asks.

Cas nods.

“Good,” Dean says and leans down again, pressing a hand to Cas’s forehead. “I’ll leave you to it, ok?” Dean turns towards the door. Cas’s body is wracked with a coughing fit again, he winces and presses a hand to his chest as he fights for breath and tries not to spill the soup. Dean turns back. “You want me to stay for a bit?” he asks with a frown.

Cas nods and Dean comes back to sit on the edge of the bed again. He looks down as if trying to decide something and then puts a hand on Cas’s leg, tentitively, as he watches Cas finish eating.

Cas watches him too; his brilliant green eyes are soft but a tiny bit red at the edges from lack of sleep. They flicker over Cas’s face, looking for signs of something worse than a cold, a sign that he has not been taking enough care of him. Cas might not be able to read Dean’s mind any more but he doesn’t need to; his fear and concern are written in the lines of his face.

When Cas has finished the soup Dean places the tray back on the side and lies down next to him on the bed, arranging them so Cas is resting his head on his chest, his arm thrown across his stomach. Cas sighs deeply and closes his eyes, relaxing into Dean’s arms and the sensation of his hands trailing lightly along his back. He is aware that something is changing, that this is not necessarily conventional behaviour among friends. A heavy tranquility permeates his whole body and he is asleep before he can really wonder what it all means.


End file.
